A Year in Polychrome
by justcallmesmitty
Summary: "In our life there is a single color, as on an artist's palette, which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the color of love." [Marc Chagall] Logan's perspective in parallel to 'A Year in the Life'.
1. Prologue

. . . . **Prologue** . . . .

_In our life there is a single color, as on an artist's palette,_  
_which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the color of love._ [Marc Chagall]

* * *

**London, England, UK | May 2015**

He walks in through the front door of his flat, each step heavy under his feet. Dropping his coat on the bed, he rummages in its pockets and finds what he seeks. The weight of the small box rests in his hand, its contents finely tuned and immaculately polished and ready to be placed upon Odette's finger. He cracks it open and sets it on top of his dresser, staring at it. Leaning his elbow on the dresser, his hand comes to rest against his forehead, and grants him a closer view. Such a tiny object and yet it holds so much weight. The setting large and gaudy, it smacks of old wealth and prestige. When his father took the heirloom out from the safe earlier in the week so it could be entrusted to the jeweller, he saw the satisfied glint in Mitchum's eyes.

The man knows, with this, he has won.

Logan shakes his head, defeated. _It wasn't supposed to be like this_.

He was supposed to be in love with his wife. That was what he had always told himself, at the least, and he had resolved to the stance more firmly after Honor and Josh had managed to marry on their own terms. Somehow, however, the last eight years have robbed him of this well-intentioned determination.

_Because she said, 'no'._

He thinks of Odette and their arrangement. They built their relationship upon the need to quiet their meddling mothers, who were hell-bent on marrying off their children. They agreed to put forward the desired image of a couple until they met people they actually _wanted_ to marry.

She knows he doesn't love her; he knows of her string of monogamous dalliances, searching for that magic someone, and he knows it is isn't him. They offer one another friendship and companionship, but never love.

And always, always lonely.

_How can this truly be what comes next?_

He plans to ask her tonight, when they go to dinner after her flight arrives at Heathrow. This is the natural next step – to propose, to move forward. The increase of pressure from both families has led to this decision. He knows Odette's naive and sincere hopes that they can draw out a long engagement and buy them both more time in finding other partners will only last so long.

And he knows – _at least for him_ – that all the time in the world can't magically conjure a woman who will walk into his favorite pub one night and be everything he wants. Even the world's most beautiful women would fail to satisfy, to meet his deepest desire for a partner in life and in love and in mischief. All except one – and only one.

Because every woman pales beside _her_. Eight years later, he still misses her feet curled into his at night and the sight of her current reading list scattered throughout his home, on end tables and kitchen counters and stashed on the window-sill next to the bed.

He wants to call her, to yell at her – to tell her that she ruined him and that he now plans to propose to a woman he will never love – but he _can't_. At the sound of her voice, he knows he wouldn't be able to go through with his plans for the evening.

_And for what? To stall out his life again over the one who got away?_

He checks his wristwatch, taking note that the car will arrive in ten minutes. Foolishly, he sits on the bed and pulls out his phone. He opens his Instagram account, scrolling down with his finger until he finds it – that little suggestion for people he might know – and selects the one name that popped up after he regrettably made the decision to follow Paris and Doyle, and after Finn and Robert started following her account with eager abandon.

For the first time in years, he sees her face. He sets the feed so he can scroll downward through her pictures and begins to thumb through them. She looks happy in her latest post, flanked by her mother and Luke at some town festival. He spies Taylor frowning at something in the background and a chuckle escapes him at the thought. A series of posts span seven or eight days, revealing a whirlwind trek through the American West for what he gleans from the captions to be an article on the future of the nation's water supply. A smiling Lane with her twin boys makes him feel his age, and a twinge of oft-avoided desire to have his own family surprises him. Of course there's a quintessential image of a cup of coffee at Luke's; a stack of books on the tray of an airplane seat; a well-organized to-do list.

It all reflects her natural light and humor and _Weltanschauung_ – a combination he has long known to be virtually inescapable. In a moment – in one glimpse at those sparkling eyes in their peculiar shade of sky – memories long-buried begin to surface. Memories long before she said no, when they were happy and in love and factoring one another into major decisions.

And then there's a selfie of her and some guy kissing on New Year's Eve. Some guy named _Paul_.

He stops suddenly, determinedly shoving the memories back into what he hopes will continue to be unaccessed corners of his mind. Realizing the full idiocy of his decision to "check in" on her online, he exits out of her feed. If she's happy, then he will let her be happy. And, in the meantime, he resolves to set aside his doubts as to the probability and determines to find someone who makes him happy – _even if it can't be her_. He will try his damnedest to join Odette in her quest to find that magic, elusive someone.

Standing up, he grabs the ring box and snaps it closed, placing it carefully in his jacket pocket. He steadies himself against the dresser, waiting for his heart to cease its frantic pace within his chest. In, then out, he breathes.

He straightens, retrieves his coat from the bed and, then, he shuffles down the steps and walks out his front door.

* * *

_Story image from photograph by Glyn Lowe Photoworks, Creative Commons 2.0_


	2. Red

**. . . . ****Red ****. . . .**

_Red is the ultimate cure for sadness_. [Bill Blass]

* * *

**Hamburg, Germany | July 2015**

He reaches for his phone, which has obnoxiously started ringing in his pocket, hurriedly unlocks it and places it next to his ear. Nodding at the bellman as he walks by, he passes through the front doors and makes his way toward the waterfront.

"Huntzberger here."

Stopping short to avoid colliding with two women weighed down by a number of shopping totes, he hears Odette's voice clearly over the line and chuckles – grateful he managed to escape the countless decisions needing to be made for their engagement party next week.

Sensing a break in Odette's ramblings, he cuts in, "Odette! We talked about –" Listening to her quick response, he settles in at a rail overlooking the lake and waits for her to finish ranting about how their mothers are bickering over final flower decisions. "Odette!" he interjects loudly. Some people startle nearby at his volume before resuming their conversations and he hears her fall quiet. "Breathe, Odette," he urges gently, and she pauses to do so on the other end.

"Are you all right?" he asks, and she responds softly, slightly defeated, "_Oui_."

"Good. Now, what is the first rule of planning this party?" She exhales audibly before speaking.

"This is not for us."

"Exactly – and I know it's a hard position to sustain for so long. Do you think you can mediate between our mothers and come to some sort of reasonable compromise, since they will not be planning an actual wedding for the two of us?"

He sees her clearly in his mind, gnawing on a carefully manicured fingernail and closing her eyes in exasperation – holed up in some side closet at the venue between a broom and a mop, knowing there'd be no chance in hell Shira or Amelie would ever look for her there.

"Okay, good," he replies, trying to fill the lull in conversation. "Go out tonight," he advises cautiously. "Or stay in and call Nico. I know this is a long stretch for you two to be apart."

"Thank you, _mon amie_," she breathes out. "I very much needed to be reminded of a few things." She laughs lightly before asking, "How is Hamburg? Do you plan to return on Saturday?"

He nods, eyes drifting to a pair of children chasing birds at the water's edge. "Yeah, Saturday. Hamburg's beautiful, as always," he says and then sighs. "I just wish I had someone to share it with," he adds wistfully. As well as they know each other, she still doesn't ever seem to know what to say when he expresses such sentiments – but he can always count on her to try.

"You'll find her, Logan," she encourages softly. "Who knows?" she tacks on hopefully. "Maybe she is right around the corner, waiting for you to bump into her. _Destin. __Inévitable__._"

He resumes walking, making his way along the footpath toward a cafe on the northwest side of the inner Alster. "Perhaps," he states. "Regardless, you should go before someone finds you in that closet." She laughs and takes leave of the conversation, to which he responds with a quick goodbye and shoves his phone back into his pocket.

Being July, he has to weave among school children and tourists as he wanders along the path. The afternoon sun beats down warmly, driving people to the water. He ambles, thankful for his cancelled meeting and the chance simply to enjoy the city. Stopping to look at the day's specials on the menu at the cafe's entrance, he glances at his watch and realizes he will need to find something to do for at least ten minutes before the eatery opens for the evening.

He turns to continue down the footpath toward an overlook – and that is when he spies her, standing at the rail in a red dress.

* * *

It takes a moment for his eyes to fully register what they see. Her hair swept up in a ponytail, he notices a few small, loose tendrils fluttering subtly in the breeze off the lake. She takes out a tiny notebook and pulls a pencil from its middle to scribble a few lines, replacing it in her bag when finished. He doesn't remember the last time he saw her pause like this – stopping to take in what lies before her, with no heed given to a to-do list or a book in her hand.

Before he truly knows what he does, he sidles up alongside her at the rail, turns his face to greet her, and exhales. His skin crawls and he feels awkward and unnerved, striking up a conversation when the last one resulted in his walking away in absolute regret, but he still hears his voice speak evenly, cooly. He even feels a confident smirk twist the corners of his mouth.

"Of all the lakes in Western Europe … " He watches her carefully, registering the moment she tenses her jaw and fights back the spreading grin of recognition. He himself can barely believe the moment to be true. She turns her face to his, her shock undisguised amidst some level of amusement. Folding her arms across her chest, she leans back against the rail and nods cordially.

"Huntzberger," she offers. He realizes quite suddenly that he has needed to hear the sound of his name on her lips for more than eight years.

"Gilmore," he returns, attempting to mask just how much this moment affects him.

An awkward beat settles between them, caught in the golden glow of the summer afternoon and the simultaneous slowing of this moment with the speeding of hearts. In time, he coughs and breaks his gaze away from her eyes – those eyes whose precise shade of blue remains indescribable and irreplicable.

He glances back over his shoulder and spies her tugging a strand of hair behind an ear, agitatedly straightening the folds of her dress. Of all the things he had ever loved about Rory Gilmore, her lack of grace might be one of the foremost. When prepared, she could manufacture it like the most skilled society wife – but when caught unaware, he found her flustered nature endearing. Forcing back a chuckle, he turns back to her, prompting her to quickly suspend her attempt to magick away a crease in her skirt.

"Coffee?" he offers playfully.

Her eyes sparkle merrily at the suggestion.

"Always."

* * *

"So there I was, after the Inauguration, standing in the back row of the White House press room on credentials I still don't know how Hugo scored, and I realized I wanted more action – less standing around, if you will. I loved being on the bus. I loved getting to interview voters in different states about what they thought of the senator and see how his campaign changed with the issues. Filing basic stories on a daily briefing schedule just wasn't for me and, thankfully, Hugo understood. He reassigned me for a while, mostly just society coverage – but eventually he didn't have the funding to keep me on. The publication later went under, which I'm sure you know." She stops long enough to take a large pull on her coffee and catch her breath.

"And, then, well – " she shrugs with a note of defeat. "I started looking for a new job and found that the entire world of journalism had changed in the two years since I hopped on that bus. They wanted me to know how to code my own web page and simplify my prose to better fit the tone of the web. They asked me to take my own pictures!"

He snorts, burying his nose as quickly as he can into his own cup. Her eyes blaze, alight with the fire of one who recognizes scoffing.

"I'm _not _a photographer, Logan! I took a summer course once because I thought, 'Hey, art's good', and they refused to develop my pictures after a few weeks because they were _that _bad."

He can't help but smile as he looks at her, flushed in the fading light – hopped up on caffeine and spilling forth as many words as she possibly can fit into their minutes together.

"Oh, I know you're not." His laugh rings clearly before mingling with the chatter of the people around them. "Your pictures of my graduation day were, shall we say, _special._" She buries her face in her hands.

"But, in all seriousness," she looks up and sighs. "The whole industry changed so quickly. All my life, I wanted to get out there and talk to people and see the world and write about important things – and then all of a sudden they want me to do more than write _stet _above the words I once thought about changing but decided not to. Jobs became more scarce, and so I decided to give freelancing a try." Her hands become animated, gesticulating wildly to reinforce her words.

"I traveled, wrote as I saw the world, and then tried to sell my writing to anyone who would take it. I burned through the majority of my trusts from both my dad and my grandparents that way." She shakes her head, her expression saddened. "It was irresponsible. I should have just kept trying to find a position that worked for me – but I didn't and now I don't feel like I fit at all into this thing that I have always wanted. I just – " she trails off.

"I can help you find something, Ace." The nickname slips out before he can catch it, sweet to taste on his tongue after all these years. "You've always been an incredible writer and there are some who still value that over the crowdsourcing nonsense that has taken over what we still refer to as 'credible' news." He smiles, trying to reassure her. His voice takes on its best infomercial salesman tone, who apparently sounds like a mobster from New Jersey. "You need contacts? I can get you contacts. The Huntzberger name still carries a little weight," he closes with a quick wink and a scratch of his chin.

She visibly relaxes, smiles and shakes her head lightly. "Thanks, Logan, but – no – I need to figure this out on my own." Breathing deeply, she looks out over the water and lets the conversation lapse.

He wonders at the silence – they never used to have silences to fill – but he doesn't press her further. The waiter arrives to refill their cups.

He observes her as she brings the cup to her lips, seeking to muster sufficient courage to say the words that have festered for too long.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words breaking into the quiet between them. Her eyes snap up to meet his.

"Really?" she asks, timid and caught unaware by the confession.

"Every day," he acknowledges with a tilt of his head. "Not a day goes by that I don't regret walking away and saying it was all or nothing."

"Logan – " He sees the tears spring to her eyes and cuts her off.

"No, please – I've waited eight years to say this." He exhales, the words spilling hurriedly from his lips. "I'm sorry. I loved you and you had so many decisions before you and I should have respected that. It wasn't fair to you, and I'm sorry."

"Wow," she whispers, her voice barely audible above those of the surrounding patrons.

"Anyway … " he feels his face flush and deflects the conversation. "You've been covering this year's _Schlagermove_, made some contacts with the Hamburg media scene – What's next for you?"

She reins in the emotions jockeying to emerge after his apology, diverting her faculties to answer his question. "London, actually."


	3. Black

**. . . . ****Black ****. . . .**

_If there was a blacker color than black, I would wear it_. [Mariacarla Boscono]

* * *

**London, England, UK | August 2015**

Walking up the stairs and into his flat, it amazes him how quickly she has settled in and made herself comfortable. Instead of Thucydides, though, the last few Pulitzer winners have managed to sprawl across the kitchen counter and tuck themselves into the end table by the sofa. He shakes his head and smiles, remembering when he returned every night to this same sense of being home. In less than 48 hours, she has managed to transport him back eight years.

The smile pulls at the corners of his eyes as he sets down his attaché by the desk and moves through the flat. Her suitcase sits out on a chair; her toiletry kit neatly stowed under the mirror next to the sink; her red dress hangs on the valet hook inside the bathroom.

She fits effortlessly into his world and always has. Forty-eight hours and her essence permeates every inch of the 70 square meters he calls 'home'.

Walking into the bathroom, he loosens the knot of his tie and spies a handwritten note, scrawled across the back of a takeaway receipt, clipped to the mirror: _Hugo's in town – meeting him for drinks in Soho. Join us for dinner? Text me. -R_

Lifting the tie off his neck, he hangs it on the valet hook next to her dress. His reflection looks back at him in the mirror, the visual combination of their clothing visible in the background – challenging him to continue his attempts to ignore all that arises within him at the sight. In spite of his best efforts and reassurances, the question of whether he can really just let her be his roommate whenever she needs a place to crash in London will not be silenced.

Sighing, he returns to the main room. His hands reach for keys and phone while his eyes dart around the room. He descends the stairs and reaches for the doorknob, knowing it is high time he admit the truth:

It's still her. There has never been anyone else.

* * *

"And Hugo gave me all these contacts for people here – he thinks there might be a market for more high-end society coverage like I did for him before the campaign. Smart pieces, you know? Nothing fluffy." She pauses to breathe, flushed from the exertion of her cascade of words. "He mentioned Condé Nast is interested in buying freelance bits like that and that such arrangements often lead to something more permanent. They have writers they let _just _write – but you have to earn your spot. I can do that, right?" she asks, finally winded. The blueness of her eyes dark in the lamplight, they shine with a rare combination of possibility and doubt.

"I know you can," he assures, leaning toward her and patting lightly on the couch cushion in front of him. "If you want someone to put in a word – " he begins to offer.

"No," she cuts him off. "You've already done so much for me, just by letting me save money on a hotel and not be living out of that hostel near Oxford Circus. I can do this on my own." She pulls her arms in at her sides, straightening her shoulders and lengthening her neck with a feigned confidence he knows she doesn't actually feel. She glances at the clock on the mantel and sips from her wine glass. "Wow, it's late, isn't it?" she remarks. "Have you seen my phone?"

He grabs her handbag from behind the sofa and passes it to her. She digs through, seeking the object in question. A rudimentary flip phone finds its way onto the cushion, followed swiftly by two sticks of lip balm, a book of essays, and three pens. Pulling another device from the bag's depths, she exults audibly with an "Aha!" and powers it on. She lifts herself off the sofa and moves toward the kitchenette. "Do you want anything?" she asks as she begins to rifle through the cabinets for a snack.

Chuckling, he shakes his head 'no' and reaches for the night's _London Evening Standard _and glances over the highlighted contents.

He hears her messages begin to play through speakerphone as she continues her raid in pursuit of Pop Tarts or Red Vines – neither of which he has. The voices fade into the background as he follows the jump to the rest of an article on the latest tech startups financed by London firms.

_Hi Rory ..._

Lorelai's voice breaks oddly into the room, causing him to pause and look up.

_I need you to call me, Kid. Don't worry about the time. Just call me._

Where the room was once filled with bustle and noise, it now holds only silence. Having ceased her search for late-night sustenance, Rory stands frozen by the sink – a box of microwave popcorn in her right hand – with a puzzled expression across her face.

"That sounded weird, right?" she asks, worried, suddenly sobered. "I should call." Moving back to the sofa, she settles in and dials her mother's number, holding the phone up to her ear.

He nods and waits, his pulse catching with his breath just below his throat.

"Mom?" A short pause. "Hi." Another. "What's going on?" And then a pause that stretches into silence. Her free hand flits to cover her mouth as a soft gasp emerges. Quick tears smart at her eyes and begin to slide down her cheeks, single drops turning into a fluid stream.

He looks away, not wanting to intrude – selfishly knowing that he can't do so or his offer of comfort will too easily turn into something he will not be able to control.

"Okay," he hears her respond as she hiccups a bit into the receiver. "I'll let you know when I find a flight." She steadies herself with a deep breath as he grabs his phone and sends a quick text to his assistant. "Hey, Mom?" A pause. "I love you." Another pause. "Okay. See you soon."

And, then, he turns to see her face buried in her hands – silent grief wracking her body with sobs.

"Hey, Ace?" The sobs stop, an occasional twitch of the body responds as she looks up at him. "What can I do?" he asks cautiously.

"I need to get home," she hiccups out. "It's Grandpa."

"Okay," he responds in a low voice, almost a whisper. "I've already texted Ewan. He'll arrange everything."

She nods slowly, her countenance more fogged with understanding as the minutes pass.

"Let's get you packed back up and by then we should know the details, all right?" he watches as she agrees and stands up, looking around for her things.

* * *

**Hartford, CT**

He knows he shouldn't be here, knows his father expects him to appear alongside Odette at a business function tonight – but a split second after he saw that horrible look break over Rory's face, he had decided he couldn't _not _be here. He had put her on a plane at Heathrow and had booked his own fare as soon as details for the service became public.

The late morning sun beats down warmly as he stands at the back of the service. So much green all around, life itself seeming to mock those who mourn. His eyes follow her head as she leans against Lorelai, how she reaches over a hand to clasp Emily's. He sees the quick sob that she stifles and the Chuck Berry album on the memory table.

Though he didn't always see eye-to-eye with the man, Richard Gilmore was a giant – and he was loved fiercely by his granddaughter. He knows this loss will change her.

A cloud passes in front of the sun, casting a cool shadow upon the gathering. A light breeze stirs through his hair and the leaves above him. The minister continues in his reading of the liturgy, and he recognizes that the end of the traditional service draws near.

Before the family rises to leave, to make their way to the waiting towncars and then to the reception at the Gilmore home – before they rise, he slips away from his vantage point under the trees, pulls a set of keys from his pocket, and opens the door to his rental car. Certainly no one would find it odd for him to be here, but the fact that he isn't really here to mourn Richard or on behalf of the Huntzberger family keeps him from making his presence widely known. He came for _her_.

And when she appears again at the front door of his flat in the morning, all energy and emotion long spent, he does not want her to have any idea that he stood here, keeping watch.

He pulls up to the cemetery gates and slowly out onto the main road, directing the car toward the airport. Tomorrow, he will take the day and they'll meander over to Piccadilly and stroll through the booksellers. They'll wander up Shaftesbury for an early dinner at the SoHo House on Greek Street. He knows a few key connections for her are in town. The two of them will drink amply and have a car take them back to his flat, where they will call it a night. She'll settle in on his couch and he will take one last concerned look as he turns out the light.

But, for now, he casts a fleeting look over his shoulder out the passenger-side window, catching just the slightest glimpse of her as she walks with her family to the waiting towncar – and he turns his eyes back to the road.


	4. Gray

**. . . . ****Gray ****. . . .**

_Life isn't black and white. It's a million gray areas, don't you find? _[Ridley Scott]

* * *

**London, England, UK | September 2015**

At four o'clock on a Wednesday, he comes home to find her sprawled across the couch, remote in hand – halfway through a rewatch of last week's episode of _The Great British Bake Off_.

He chuckles lightly, stowing the work he brought with him from the office at his desk. Walking back, he picks up her legs and tucks himself under them. She shifts, propping up her chin with her hands, eyes eagerly taking in every detail on the screen in front of her.

"I mean, seriously, who decided that making a cake that looks like a tennis court was a _thing_?" she asks, her eyes widening as the shot pans across the six remaining contestants and their offerings for the technical challenge. Five of the six can't seem to figure out how to keep their icing nets up. Even the best one doesn't look particularly appetizing to him.

"It still just doesn't seem _real_," he responds. "They lose the challenge, but no one gets eliminated. They're all super polite to one another and honest about their shortcomings – "

"And then at the end of the series, the winner goes home with a cake plate and a bunch of flowers!" she jumps in. "It's so fascinatingly non-eventful and, yet, _I can't stop watching it_." She sighs contentedly, leaning against the armrest as she hits the fast-forward button on the remote.

The casual closeness they have taken on since she returned from the States isn't lost on him. On previous visits, she'd give him a swift hug upon her arrival or departure – but that has shifted the last few weeks, a mutual understanding that she needs the reassurance of touch, of his physical presence, taking its place. Her bare legs stretch across his own; his hands resting lightly on top of them, stroking gently at the smooth skin.

He has to check himself, to remind himself that she has a boyfriend – even if she hasn't mentioned him since before she left for Hartford. His phone vibrates in his pocket, indicating an incoming message of some sort. He digs it out, a text from Odette lighting up the lock screen.

_Vegas this weekend, right?_

He slides his finger across the screen to type a quick _Yes _in reply.

_You should take her. _

Noting the quick nature of her response, he supposes she's sitting in her apartment waiting for Nico's shift to end. Her charity meeting must have finished early. While technically an employee of the family business, her job description demands very little of her actual intelligence and more of her presence in designer gowns at just the right events.

He ignores her suggestion, replying instead: _What are you and Nico up to this weekend?_

Rory squeals next to him and he steals a glance in her direction, her attention rapt and her eyes alight as she continues her _GBBO _binge. "That gelatin is never going to set in time!"

His eyes dart to the screen as his phone vibrates against his palm.

_Drinking du vin, eating brie de Meaux, and waiting to hear that you took her to Vegas._

He opens the message simply so it won't continue to show on his lock screen, then puts the phone back into his pocket. The thought of inviting Rory along for his weekend with the boys, who all adore her, shouldn't make him nervous – but it does. He knows, though, that she desperately needs a break from pounding the proverbial pavement and from the grief and processing he has seen churning behind her eyes. As much as _The Great British Bake Off _might provide a nice distraction, he suspects she needs more than Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood can offer her.

"Hey, Rory?" he asks, trying to nonchalantly settle himself into the pillows behind him.

"Yeah?" she replies, absentmindedly fixated on the television.

"Do you have plans this weekend?"

"Just trying to figure out what to do about my apartment in Brooklyn," she motions her head toward the letter on the coffee table. "Something about the building going condo. Mom sent a packet of 'recent' mail to my box, which means they need an answer next week." She sighs, both glorying in the final moments as Mat is eliminated and Tamal is named Star Baker, and realizing that the episode has once more come to a close. Turning off the set, the warmth of her legs fades quickly as she pulls them underneath her body and moves to sit up and face him. "Why? What's up? Do you need me to find somewhere else to – "

"No! Nothing like that," he cuts her off. "You're welcome to continue living on this couch," he feels the smirk on his face before he can squash it. "I just won't be here. Finn and I are flying to the States to meet Colin and Robert in Vegas for a few days."

"Oh." He watches as her face falls ever-so-slightly, then forces itself into a smile. "That'll be fun. When do you leave?"

"Friday morning." He braces himself, Odette's suggestion on repeat in his head. "Why don't you come with us? I know the guys would love to see you and I _also _know you don't have any meetings until next Wednesday."

"I couldn't afford it, Logan," she quietly asserts, her face more fixedly fallen now.

"My treat," he adds hastily. "And if you left tomorrow instead of Friday," he poses, trying to put pieces together in a fashion she can't quite refuse. "You could have a full day in Brooklyn; get in a good chat with your landlord; maybe meet your mom or Paul for lunch?"

He watches as she weighs the option, wondering just how she might actually spend her time should she accept his offer. Only when his lungs start clamoring for air does he realize he has been holding his breath. Ever since the moment he spotted her in Hamburg, wearing that damn red dress, he knew he was ready to offer her the world all over again.

And, now, sitting here with her on the sofa in his flat – he recognizes that, for him, there is no returning from this moment. They need to move forward somehow, some way.

"Sure," she replies quietly. "That sounds great."

"Great," he echoes. _Great_.

* * *

**Las Vegas, NV**

"Rory, darling!" Finn moves quickly to greet her as she steps off the plane, planting exaggerated kisses on both cheeks and pulling her into a tight embrace.

"Yes, thank you for joining in our weekend, Rory," inputs Colin half-heartedly before he's elbowed in the ribs by Robert. "It was supposed to be a _guy's _weekend, right?"

"Never mind him, love," Finn adds, loosely placing his arm around her shoulder. "He's just bitter that no one will be waiting for him when he gets home."

"What happened to Sarah, Colin?" Rory asks, feigned shock playing across her face. None of them had liked Sarah much and, as Logan had relayed to Rory upon telling her of the split last week, it didn't appear that Colin liked her all that much either.

"Cleared out her stuff last week," jumps in Robert excitedly. "Took off with a junior associate for Cozumel or Antigua or … where was it they were going to enjoy themselves, Colin?" he teases.

"Barbados," Colin spits out tersely. "Now can we go enjoy this beautiful place that begs you to forget everything that happened here once you've left? Someone ordered a car, right? I'm not riding on that nightmarish shuttle like the last time."

"I ordered a car," Logan chimes in, intent to dispel some of Colin's sourness before they enter into a confined space with him. "Let's head toward the exit. I already texted the driver."

He brings up the rear of the group, walking just so slightly behind and admiring how seamlessly she still fits into this band of misfits. It would certainly not be a boring weekend.

* * *

Her dress clings to her, its clean lines clearly defining what he knows lies underneath. The garment's emerald hue is one he has never seen her wear before. His gaze lingers appreciatively on her exposed neck and shoulders, her hair twisted up in a knot he would never have the patience to replicate.

He approaches her, sliding his arm around the small of her back before he realizes he has done so. Leaning in close, he whispers into her ear, "Nice event integrity, Ace." She flushes and steps back to take in his ensemble, the slim-cut suit and tie, the fedora and pocket square.

"Not too bad yourself, Don Draper," she winks, her eyes sparkling mirthfully. His insides hum pleasantly, knowing that she will be here, next to him, for the next few days.

Two hands press down on his shoulders as Finn's voice rings out mere inches from his ear, "What first, loves? Should we hit the tables or procure drinks or … " His voice drifts as his head swings around with the redhead in his sights. " … follow that one?" he finishes quickly as he begins to move in the unwitting target's direction. He calls back over his shoulder, "Call me if any of you decide to get married." The remaining four laugh uneasily as he hastens away.

"Blackjack?" suggests Colin, gesturing toward an open table.

He hears her hesitate as she starts to answer. "Maybe later?" he asks, to which she nods. They leave Colin and Robert at the table, settling into their quest for that elusive twenty-one, and he steers her around the casino floor. "How 'bout a drink, Gilmore?"

They stop at the bar and wait while the bartender shakes a martini and pours a hearty amount of Scotch into a tumbler. Even though they have yet to be consumed, the concept of drinks loosens them. They stroll around the floor, looking at the people and taking in the different games. His hand finds its place at the small of her back again and she lets it stay there. He tells himself he simply wants to protect her, to be sure no one takes advantage of her – but he knows better. More than instinct keeps his hand there. They chatter as they move through the room, commenting on this person and that, discussing at length the merits of the bandage dress and the plausibility that cut-off jean shorts will ever go out of style.

As they draw close to the roulette tables, he notices she grows oddly quiet. They pause to watch the wheel spin, the ball running the course of the wheel and finally settling into a numbered pocket – to the satisfaction of a well-dressed, elderly gentleman and what appears to be the much-younger girlfriend on his arm.

He turns to her and watches her swipe a finger at a stray tear making its way down her cheek.

"Ace?" he inquires. "What's going on in there?" He motions to indicate her head.

She laughs, her efforts a bit choked, shaking her head and meeting his eyes only for a moment before looking elsewhere.

"There was this business trip," she begins. Her eyes alight at the memory. "Grandpa's business partner, Jason – do you know Jason Stiles?" she rambles, to which he shakes his head. "Well, anyway, Jason decided to hold their launch party in Atlantic City. Grandma was furious," she throws her head back and grins widely, contagiously. He feels an equal smile spreading across his own face. "But Grandpa loved it. Jason had these little roulette wheels printed up as favors and Grandpa gave a couple to me and Mom. He got such a kick out of the whole thing!" She sighs, reaching up a hand to massage her neck just a bit. She adds quietly, "I miss him."

And his heart breaks at those quiet words – words he knows she had yet to say. She has been with him every day since she returned from burying her grandfather and yet she hasn't mentioned the man once. He has merely seen the loss in her eyes, shoved back behind the endless networking and writing.

"Well," he begins his proposal. "Shall we play a round in his honor?"

She glances at the table and back at him, then smiles tentatively. "Let's," she replies, moving toward the wheel.

He takes a few chips from his pocket and holds them high before placing them onto the table atop the '21'. "To Richard," he declares. As the croupier spins the wheel, he reaches for her hand and wraps her familiar thin fingers within in his own. He suspects he will never want to let them go.

* * *

He watches a yawn break upon her lips, her efforts to stifle it unsuccessful. His watch reveals just how late it is, especially when one factors in the predictability of jet lag when travelling westward. A quick glance around the floor reveals Colin and Robert off in a garishly upholstered booth with a pair of women whom he sincerely hopes won't require payment at the end of the evening, and no Finn. For the first time in a long time, he decides to let them all deal with the consequences of their own choices. He shouldn't be protecting them tonight – not when _she _needs protecting.

Tugging lightly at her elbow, she turns to him a weary, bleary-eyed face and he nods his head toward the exit. They walk in silence through the lobby and move toward the elevators that will take them upstairs to their suite. The elevator dings its arrival and they enter, the doors sliding shut behind them. He watches her breathe in deeply before looking straight downward at the floor beneath her feet. Then he feels her fingers toying gingerly with his own and he feels the furrow spread across his brow as he glances down at their hands, nearly intertwined but not quite – questioning, curious; confused by the action.

"Rory?" he asks, seeking insight. She looks up as the car settles onto the 42nd floor, their floor; shakes her head ever-so-slightly; and seizes his hand fully, guiding him to their door.

He finds the key in his pocket and inserts it into the reader. A green light flashes and a soft click sounds as she turns the handle and they enter the suite's main area. While he stands just inside, unsure of how to proceed, she tosses her handbag onto the credenza and artfully removes the first in a series of hairpins keeping her hair off her neck. Glancing back at him over her shoulder, she points to the top of the zipper running up the middle of her back and asks, "Can you help me?"

He knows what she is doing and he knows where all of this will lead. He knows that hungry look in her eyes – he has seen it countless times before, in years past and in more recent dreams. He knows she thinks he would be cheating on his fiancee. He knows she would be cheating on Paul. He knows there are a hundred conversations that should be had before he lets his hand rest on the slider and draw it downward, exposing smooth flesh and undergarments and the entirety of her beauty that he has not seen in eight years.

But he does it anyway and she twirls in his arms, leaning into him to press a delicate kiss to his lips. His body does not know whether to tense or relax, so he rests his forehead against hers and looks into her eager eyes. She slowly walks them back toward the door to his bedroom.

"Are you sure?" he asks, attempting to hold at bay his body's reactions to that simple gesture while he confirms that she is fully aware of what she's doing. She nods, eyes locked to his as she withdraws a little with the movement. She spins the doorknob and reaches for the light switch.

"Hey, what happens in Vegas … " she responds shyly, cheekily. A soft smile graces her lips and she diverts her eyes to something in the room behind him.

"Rory," he lifts her chin and her eyes come back to his. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she whispers. "_Please_."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry, y'all. Life got the best of me and I forgot to keep posting! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. It has been sweet to see this thing I've wrestled with for so long finally out there in the world, and I'm so glad so many of you have been enjoying the story.


	5. White

**. . . . ****White ****. . . .**

_I love thinking about color, but I often go with white. _[Annabelle Selldorf]

* * *

**London, England, UK | January 2016**

He listens to her rattle away in the next room about mid-day drinking and jet lag and a part of him knows they shouldn't be like this – so _domestic._

But here they are, discussing work and dry cleaning deliveries and leaning in for quick kisses. She has moved off the couch and into his bed, unpacked her suitcase into an open drawer, and stocked the cabinets with all manner of unhealthy odds and ends. He wants to take her out to celebrate this small victory with Naomi Shropshire, whatever strange roads it may lead her down. He wants to parade her about town, letting everyone know how talented she is and just how proud he is of her – but he can't quite do that. Instead, he lets her know he'll send a car at 8 and he knows they will act the part of two friends sharing a meal, as they always do.

He locates his tie and begins to knot it as she wonders aloud at Naomi's absurd ability to lose her shoes at the club mid-winter, and he affirms her talents before shrugging into his jacket. She needs to remember her passion for writing – even if it hasn't happened as she would have hoped.

She looks around, pivots, and asks about the boxes she had shipped in the wake of closing out her apartment in Brooklyn.

"I need to look for something," she asserts.

"Your lucky outfit?" he asks teasingly. He can't help it or his wide smile. He gets the appeal of this particular outfit, but he finds her fixation upon locating said outfit to be highly amusing. Of the five places to which she had sent boxes, he knows it could still be at any one of three locations if it doesn't show itself in his own closet.

"Do not mock!" She feigns offense.

"I am not mocking," he insists. "It's a great outfit. You were wearing it when I saw you in Hamburg."

_Damn Hamburg_. This whole mess is because of that damn red dress in Hamburg.

She asks about the closet, where his maid has stashed the boxes, and he finds himself uncomfortable. He dodges the unspoken question about Odette's things by reassuring Rory that he wouldn't do that. He doesn't know what keeps him from telling her that Odette's things will never find a home with his. Something holds his tongue every time – perhaps that she hasn't expressed any interest in anything more than what they have; perhaps that she keeps herself attached to Paul, for no observable reason; perhaps, when he is honest, he is simply afraid. Regardless, he says nothing.

"Look, we have an agreement," she reminds him in a matter-of-fact way that maddens him. "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas … "

"We do," he responds curtly as he buttons his jacket.

" … and when we leave Vegas, we forget about Vegas …" she rambles on. He follows inasmuch as he remembers a similar moment, at the very beginning, where she tried to convince him she wanted to explore 'stringless fun' – and he recalls his inability to resist her then, in that moment. He knew then it would lead to more than he knew how to navigate, but he went along with her anyway.

" … until we're back in Vegas, and then it's just us in Vegas ... until we're not." She stops to take a deep breath, looking at him earnestly in hope that he's tracking. She appears thoroughly convinced of her 'Vegas' argument. Flippant, almost. She seems to know what she wants. His heart falls as she pauses.

"Throw me a rope, man," she laughs.

He pulls himself together, pushing the thoughts down to where he hopes they will stay awhile. "I'll see you at 8." He forces a smile and leans in for a kiss.

And then he hears her phone vibrate against the table. Picking it up, he sees a reminder.

_Paul dinner. Don't forget!_

He reads off the text to her – beating back the jealous man inside of him, the one growing increasingly louder and more desperate for air. All of these years later – and he still holds no claim to her.

_Damn Paul._

* * *

" ... Paris was in town today trying to con Mom and Luke into a surrogacy. We stopped in at Lane's to see if she had my dress, but no luck there – and my meeting got pushed again anyway so it doesn't really matter. Paris's expression while watching the band practice was _amazing _– but I guess you kind of had to be there for that. Apparently she and Doyle are splitting, but I'll believe it when the paperwork has been filed. I'll fill you in on the details when I see you, once Naomi is back from India. Until then …"

His feet hang off the side of his bed as he listens to the rest of her voicemail, and he notes the sad pause when she speaks of her CondéNast meeting being pushed back yet again. He knows how much she has looked forward to that meeting as a bright beacon for the next stage of her career – and, subsequently, how much each postponement has dug the current hole of her self-worth a little deeper. He sighs, raking his fingers through his hair, and returns the phone to the nightstand before laying himself down on the bed and pulling up the covers. The sight of her side of the bed – untouched and missing her characteristic tokens – makes him ache.

He turns over and reaches for the light switch.

_Soon_, he repeats to himself. It becomes a mantra lulling him to sleep. Soon, she will return to work on the book with Naomi. He will find some way to help make the CondéNast meeting happen. He will tell her about Odette.

_He will. He has to._


	6. Blue

**. . . . ****Blue ****. . . .**

_Whenever I feel blue, I start breathing again. _[L. Frank Baum]

* * *

**London, England, UK | April 2016**

His mind slowly rises to consciousness, catching snippets as she talks to her mom while she gets ready for the day. He hears the quiet scrape of metal as she lifts earrings off the dresser. He has grown accustomed to the daily cadence of half-conversation, its rhythm pulling him back toward sleep – and then he hears it.

_Didi._

He hears her voice shift as she covers her arrangement with him in code. Lorelai still doesn't know. She hangs up the phone and he refrains from shifting his body, preferring she think him still asleep. At the front of his thoughts sits the question of whether she feels ashamed of what they're doing – that she has no desire for anyone to know of their dalliances.

_What else is she hiding? _

The question haunts him as she leaves. Now fully awake, he thinks on his plan to discuss Odette. _Would knowing the truth even make a difference?_

* * *

He determines to enjoy her when she's with him – to pretend for however many days or hours or weeks she spends at his flat that there is no casual agreement dictating their arrangement. As the spring blooms around him, he embraces her and her companionship for what it brings to his life: Something he sought to replace for eight years. Her energy, her intelligence, the way she fits against his body and the sound of her breaths puffing out against the night – _irreplaceable_. Even if he cannot give voice to his love for her, he will grab hold of every last moment and store it up for the years ahead, the years where her presence has no guarantee.

For a season, he almost forgets. He lets himself love her wholly. He purposefully uses less caution when taking her out, dining at family holdings when he knows his dad will be in the city. She stays longer, working on the book with Naomi and writing a proposal for potential publishers. He settles into life with her, a life he dreamt of before he asked and she said 'no' – the life he has longed for every day since.

But the ruse must be kept in the end. When Odette calls to let him know that their mothers want them together to consider wedding venues, he knows the season has waned. He doesn't want Rory to leave, but he fears he might lose himself in the charade if he lets her stay.

And, so, she sits in his lap and takes calls from Naomi. He vets potential job offers by the quality of their websites. She speaks of staying a few more days, similar conversations having occurred repeatedly over the last few weeks – her visit stretching longer and longer into the spring. He grabs his coat and readies himself, bracing himself in the knowledge that there must be an end. He proposes their traditional farewell meal. Ivy.

_You can't stay in Vegas._

* * *

But Vegas starts to bleed. She used to only call to let him know she was on her way. He looks at the clock: 2:04 a.m. She's desperate. He hears it in her voice.

"Hey there." He speaks softly, perched on the edge of the bed – every part of him alert to her as she begins to ramble.

"Oh, shoot. Did I wake you up? I woke you up. It's 2 a.m. there." She babbles and he wants to shake his head, to tell her he was finding it difficult to sleep fully clothed with Odette sleeping next to him – but he doesn't. She still doesn't know and some instinct continues to inform him that she wouldn't know how to handle the truth. Instead, he keeps his voice level.

"No, no, no. It's fine. I'm up. Everything okay?"

As she talks, he registers her request for help in making the CondéNast meeting happen. His heartbeat begins to speed a little as a newfound hope emerges that gaining clarity on her professional life might possibly result in the same clarity for her personal life. He starts to pace the floor, but stops just beyond the bed for the benefit of his downstairs neighbor. He jumps in eagerly, grateful that Odette sleeps with earplugs and isn't bothered by this mid-night conversation.

"I'll give you a text when it's done. Okay? Be happy." A smile spreads in spite of his efforts to suppress his emerging optimism that maybe – just _maybe _– this is the springboard needed for them to have an honest conversation about the future. _Their future_.

"I'm happy. Oops. Hold on." He hears her pause on the other end of the line.

"What?"

"Oh, I just thought the baby was gonna throw up." _The baby? _The comment catches him off-guard, only affording him a snarky response in the moment.

"Life change a lot since I last saw you?"

His heart unclenches a bit knowing she's babysitting. He teasingly inquires after her lucky outfit. And then the call ends. He realizes she didn't ask about him or how his week had been. A bit deflated, he pads back to his side of the bed and climbs in, burying his body beneath the covers.

He loves her – completely, deeply, maddeningly – but, for the first time, a seed of doubt settles itself into his mind that she does not feel the same.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you to all who have hung in thus far! There are still a few more chapters left ... two, after this one. I apologize (again) for the more significant lag in posting time. Life gets in my way of remembering to post. Though I love to be able to reply to reviews, I don't always have time to do so these days; however, I do read every word of feedback and am so grateful.


	7. Yellow

**. . . . ****Yellow ****. . . .**

_I really just want to be warm yellow light that pours over everyone I love. _[Conor Oberst]

* * *

**London, England, UK | July 2016**

With the book deal dead, she stays longer stateside. Her calls become more routine, regular – something he looks forward to as the evening unfolds. Dissatisfaction rings in her descriptions of the long, summer days at the pool with Lorelai and in her listing of individuals who assume she has returned to Stars Hollow for good. He knows the meeting with CondéNast happened, that she was working on a spec piece, but she has yet to disclose what happened. She rattles on about time zones and shifts to discussing their plans for her visit in a few weeks.

He steels himself, urging the rational side to take over for the irrational man in love with her. She has never been one to be shy when she wants something, and so he decides to wait for her to speak. It may burn him in the end, he acknowledges, but he would rather not foist himself or his feelings upon her to force an honest conversation. In the meantime, Odette's admonitions echo in his thoughts: "You need better boundaries, Logan." "She needs to fail." "Give her a reason to miss you, _mon amie_."

Each admonition proving legitimate to the rational mind, he and Odette had decided she should stay for a few weeks to force a little breathing room.

But as rational as adhering to that breathing room may be, he finds himself folding at the sound of her defeated voice proposing an earlier arrival than agreed. He tries to ignore the small voice nagging at him that she's only bored and trying to escape her current place in life, but for a moment he pushes aside the voice that tells him she doesn't love him for the sake of the voice that reminds him of his love for her. He can't help it. _He loves her_.

"We'll make it special. Your favorite place, The Dorchester or the Savoy."

This capitulation adds to the already complicated nature of what he wants to accomplish. Odette will berate him later when he relays the adjusted plans. He hears how upset Rory is over the prospect of staying at the hotel instead of in his flat. Perhaps he can convince her to stick to the original plan and then there will be no upbraiding from Odette …

"Look, can't we just keep the plans the same? Come out in three weeks, and we will figure it all out then. Please, Rory? Okay?"

She agrees and he feels some of his tension release. "I'm looking forward to it."

As she hangs up, the small voice re-emerges.

_Give up. She doesn't want what you want._

* * *

The regular, late-night phone calls stop coming.

In the near-radio silence of the following weeks, the small voice's cautions increase in volume – especially as Odette's increase in frequency. He reminds himself that Rory has finally found something worthwhile to put her energy into; that the Gazette needs a talented journalist like her at its helm; and that her idea for a book sounds like the perfect exercise to reestablish daily writing habits. Loneliness, however, settles in with the silence and forces him to ask himself if he truly believes she cares in the way he still hopes she cares. He wants her to feel validated, for his encouragement and support to be only one of many opinions to which she listens, but he misses her voice on the other end of his phone. As one-sided as so many of their conversations have been, he laments that she no longer needs his tokens of support or reassurances of her worth.

His phone rings as he strolls across his living area, newly home from the office. He glances at the screen to identify the caller before picking up, unsurprised by the displayed name. _Rory. _"Hello?"

The line cuts out after his greeting. Some small piece of him starts to panic – just a little. He walks toward his desk to drop off his suit coat and a few other miscellany.

He wonders if she's okay. He wants to know what's going on. She called four times yesterday while he was in a late meeting. _Surely she wouldn't call him if she were in real trouble, their being separated by more than three thousand miles?_ He knows he should assume it to be a pocket dial or an error of some sort, as she has left no indication she wants him to return the call, and he is still questioning whether he should when the phone rings again.

"Hello? Rory?" he asks quickly, frustrated and anxious for answers. Again, the line drops. His heart rate quickens, the irrational side taking over to wonder about her safety.

Her name shows up again on his screen and he answers without pleasantries this time, trying to curtail his mounting anger and failing: "What is going on?" The only answer he receives to his question is the dial tone.

_That's it_. He taps her name on his recent call list. He needs to get to the bottom of this.

"Hey – stop calling." A voice chides him over the line. _Lane? How is he the one getting scolded for this?_

"What are you talking about? She's calling me!" The conversation takes on the tone of a schoolyard squabble.

"It's a reflex and we're going to kick it." _A reflex? An effing reflex? What the hell does that mean? _He hears Lane rattle on, but he doesn't pay attention too closely. Loosening his tie, he does his best to come off as only slightly perturbed.

"Lane, just put her on the phone."

Some bickering with Lane later, Rory's voice breaks over the line, sharing that she just had a bad day. Grateful she's okay, his body relaxes and he tests the waters with a witty comment about her cholesterol problem. He encourages her to talk to him about the thing with her mom, reminding her that he's here for such things, and then she starts talking only to say, " … I realized I can't call you anymore."

_She can't call him anymore? _

"Logan?" He hears the bathroom door open and Odette's voice call from the next room, certainly ready to go grab dinner. Quite possibly the worst timing. With Rory still unaware of the truth of their situation, having Odette interrupt will only make things worse.

"I'm going to take this outside," he mutters, unfortunately out loud instead of to himself. He opens the balcony door.

"Because she's there." He sighs. This is not going as he had hoped.

"Rory – " he starts, unsure of what to say.

_Boundaries, Logan. Let her miss you._

"She's there," she repeats.

He shakes his head and sets his teeth. "Yeah."

"That's why," she states – as if this should be clear to him by now. An exasperated sigh escapes, his shoulders now tense as he leans against the rail.

"So, I guess we should say 'goodbye'."

_If she really isn't in the mood to talk, then sure: _"If that's what you want," he says as evenly as he can muster.

And then, suddenly it's over. All of it. _How did the conversation escalate so quickly?_

His head hangs at the dial tone, questioning whether he should have told her the truth in the moments before it got away from him. He looks up and away from his phone, in shock and disbelief at what had just transpired.

Odette walks over, having watched the last of the exchange from the living area. Sadness fills her eyes as she spies the anguish in his.

"Do not fret, _mon amie_," she places her arm through the crook of his elbow, patting gently at his forearm. "We will fix it."

He cannot fathom how they will be able to fix this, but he lets her lead him inside.

_They can't even break up because they're nothing._


	8. Gold

**. . . . ****Gold ****. . . .**

_Nature's first green is gold,  
Her hardest hue to hold.  
Her early leaf's a flower;  
But only so an hour.  
Then leaf subsides to leaf.  
So Eden sank to grief,  
So dawn goes down to day.  
Nothing gold can stay. _

[Robert Frost]

* * *

**London, England, UK | October 2016**

The golden days of summer draw to their end, and Odette begins to pack her things away in anticipation of her departure. She will return to Paris for her quarterly set of meetings with charities and designers alike – and she doesn't plan to return. She carefully places items into their boxes, addresses them clearly to her apartment and hides them away in the hall closet until such a time as Logan might send them to her without drawing attention to the fact she has permanently relocated.

And then, one gray morning, he walks her down to a waiting car, her luggage in one hand and her arm looped casually through the bend in his elbow. Her friendship has proved a bright and beautiful constant these last few years. As he hands her bag to the driver, he knows he will miss her more than he can begin to express. The driver stows the bag in the trunk and reappears to help Odette into the car. She pulls Logan in for a tight hug, catching him off of his guard.

"Oh, how I will miss you, _mon amie_." She pulls back to place a kiss on each cheek and look into his eyes. "_Merci_, for everything. Do not be a stranger. Nico will feed you if you come." A smile breaks on her face, and the wrinkled corners of her eyes belie her excitement over her impending elopement. She clasps his hand, swinging their arms back and forth with childlike fervor. As much as he wants to resent her for having found the love for which she had so long sought, he also wants to ensure she only sees the genuine happiness he holds for her.

"Nico is a lucky man," he can't help but say through a smile. "You will be a stunning bride. If only you would tell me when the wedding is," he winks and she laughs, a flash of silvery joy adding light and life to an otherwise drab curbside for the last time. He squeezes her hand and chastely kisses both of her cheeks as she smooths down the front of his suit jacket. The driver helps her into the car and she rolls down the window after settling herself into the seat.

"_Au revoir, mon amie_. Until we meet again." She blows him a kiss as the car pulls away from the curb. He holds up a hand in farewell. The car turns the corner and is gone.

He takes the stairs up to his flat and opens the door.

The space he calls home suddenly feels empty, and suffocatingly so. Once more, any spare drawers are bereft of their contents and only one toothbrush sits in its holster in the bathroom. No stacks of books lie stashed in random corners. Only one phone sits plugged into only one cord at the desk. No expected visitors.

His phone vibrates to let him know his car has arrived to take him to the office. He grabs his attaché case and heads back down the stairs.

* * *

He arrives home well past midnight, a takeaway dinner in a bag under his arm. Thanking the driver, he walks to the building door and ushers himself inside, nodding to the doorman as he passes. He slowly climbs the steps to his flat, debating whether he should have just stayed at the office.

Balancing his various items, he manages to get the key into the lock and turns the handle. He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the deserted dark, and then opens the door.

Inside, it is anything but dark and deserted.

"Ah, there you are. It's about damn time." Colin puts down the evening paper, glancing up at him sidewise. Finn snores loudly from the bed, where he has sprawled himself out facedown in a manner that will prevent anyone else from sleeping well. He reaches up and runs a hand over his tired face. He does not possess enough energy to deal with this after a full day at the office.

"Colin," he says through the deepening clench of exhaustion. "It's late. I'm hungry and tired and I've had a hell of a day. You can tell me why you're here in the morning – just get Finn out of my bed."

He grabs a fork from a drawer and sits down to pick at his food while Colin moves to the bed and begins to exert himself in an effort to remove Finn from it, or at the least to move him to the one side so as to open up space for someone else to use. In his spent state, his ears quickly tune out the bickering and antics that ensue in the background.

"Where's Robert?" Finn mumbles from half-sleep. "Odette promised me Robert, not you sorry lot." Finn rolls over suddenly, jettisoning Colin backward in his attempts to push Finn to one side.

_What does Odette have to do with anything? _He wonders, looking up at Colin bewilderedly.

Colin steps back from the bed, brushing his hands together as if he has managed a great accomplishment. "Don't worry, Logan. Robert will be here in the morning." His friend grabs a blanket and settles onto the couch for the night.

_That wasn't why he was worried._

* * *

He wakes before his two misfit friends, having been rendered conscious by Finn's absurd snores and vowing never to lie to any potential future wives about his friend's sleeping habits. Padding over to the kitchenette, he pulls down three bowls and a box of cereal from a cabinet. He lets a portion jingle into the bowl and opens the refrigerator to retrieve a little milk from the bottle, and then moves to find a spoon. A knock interrupts from the direction of the door.

Setting down his bowl, he hears the other two stir as he releases the lock and cracks the door open, revealing Robert on the other side.

Not feeling chatty, he opens the door and motions Robert inside. He crosses back to the kitchen and pulls out a stack of spoons, keeping one for himself and letting the rest clatter loudly onto the counter. He stabs angrily at his cereal, spooning it into his mouth and feeling the decided clench of his jaw as his teeth work at the pieces.

Turning around, he catches sight of the now-awake stooges whispering amongst themselves and glancing warily in his direction.

"Why are you here?" he asks as calmly as he can muster, relying on a hefty measure of self-control to keep him from exploding in exasperation. His friends persist in their tendency to disrupt his life without the slightest word of warning, even a decade after they all last lived in close proximity to one another.

Finn sheepishly steps forward and presents him with a sealed envelope. Taking it in hand, he notices his name scrawled across the front in Odette's writing. He sighs, running his finger under the edge of the seal and pulling out its contents.

The topmost sheet is covered in more of her writing, while the rest appear to be printouts. He begins to read:

_Logan –_

_Do not blame them. I asked them to come, to pack light, and to bring their passports._

_Enjoy your 'stag' party. Consider it your final obligation to me, one that will divert attention from all that is about to happen and provide you with one last proof of innocence for your family. The boys have looked forward to this since we announced our engagement. They will make sure you have a wonderful time. Flights and accommodations are on the following pages. _

_You, too, deserve a chance at true love. Go to her. Make known your love and let there be no doubt of it. If still she does not speak – if still she does not ask for more – then, I fear it is time to let her go. I hate to give such unkind advice, but it is all I have left to give._

_All my love,  
__Odette_

* * *

**Stars Hollow, CT**

He steps out of the car and into the street, wondering how in the world his friends managed to coordinate all of this. Even with the assistance of the current Brigade, it had been years since they last planned a Brigade outing and he had expected the details to be a bit sloppy somehow, but every last one – from changing the sign at the flower shop to the creepy black bird to pulling in Rory's aging coworker at the _Gazette _– set the mood perfectly for a night of beautiful mayhem, the Brigade's speciality.

He watches her walk into the darkness of the newspaper's office and holds his breath, waiting for that moment when the jig is up and she re-emerges to be greeted by three men wearing gorilla masks and steampunk garb. Definitely one of their more eclectic outings to date.

She chats animatedly with each of them, their disguises hiding nothing of their identities from her. He exhales at the sight of her smile. They circle her like carrion whirling over their prey, and he spies her brain turning in an effort to keep up and make sense of their gibberish. She's game – and one is definitely afoot.

"After discussing the minutes from the last meeting and the minutes we took in this meeting discussing the minutes from the last meeting," Robert begins his meandering explanation.

"There was a lot of Scotch," Finn interjects, very proud of that fact.

He inhales deeply and prepares to step out of the shadows.

"And we took a vote," continues Robert.

"And we decided," he pauses, emerging from his hiding spot. "That we had to come and take you out." Bedecked in the same fashion as his idiotic brethren, he steps off of the curb and slowly moves toward her. He doesn't break his gaze, trying to keep his steps measured even as he wants to rush at her and pull her into his arms. He wonders if he's a fool and perhaps, he acknowledges, he is – but he loves her. Attempting to tamp down his churning emotions, he offers up to her a costume hat and coat.

She masks her thoughts carefully, then takes the hat, trying it on for size. Its ribbon and tulle trail down her back and a smile breaks out across her face. Suddenly, the grand anxious pause of the previous moments speeds into full technicolor surreality and hope swells in his chest.

They run through the streets and into the fast blur of adrenaline and alcohol, camaraderie and nostalgia.

* * *

The current Brigade intersects their path as they enter the speakeasy, lavishly Latin in every element. He had nearly forgotten the thrill of escaping the normalcy of life.

The club's rhythm lulls him into a heady state of prolonged disbelief as they dance, feigning to know what they're doing but neither of them particularly skilled. His desire – to hold her close and breathe in the scent of her – keeps him rooted to the dancefloor. He feels her reluctance, the tension in her arms and legs refusing to relax into him as his body has done under her influence. She missteps and mistakes his foot for the floor, teetering off-balance. As she awkwardly apologizes, he leads her to a table set aside from the lounge and partially obscured by beaded curtains. The time has come to address the proverbial elephant that makes this the first night he has seen her in months.

He sits down to assess his foot, grateful when the pain starts to subside.

"You're still a terrible dancer," he chides lightly.

"Agreed," she admits without hesitation.

"But damn – " he can't help himself. _It's the truth. _"You are a beauty."

They sip champagne and exchange witticisms. In light of her hesitance, in light of the serial hang-ups and subsequent non-existent 'breakup', a question sits at the forefront of his mind, but he knows it will shift the conversation and it might not turn out in his favor. He pauses, takes a shallow breath and launches ahead before he can change his mind.

"You glad I came?"

She cooly asks why he came and he can honestly say he hadn't expected another question as her answer. Her body still tense, he decides to adjust the tone of the conversation – if at all possible – and says the first thought that arises, at the sight of Finn harassing a young Brigade member across the floor.

"Well, it was my turn to walk Finn."

The joke doesn't land, so he resumes his original tactic. He steels himself, sifting all that he wants to say and knowing he has to adhere to the boundaries of what she does and doesn't know about Odette.

"I did not like the way we left things." She looks decidedly uncomfortable.

"Yeah – me neither," she replies, looking down.

"I should have told you about Odette moving in," he adds, assuming that event to be at least closely approximate to the turning point for her attitude toward their tryst.

"Nope. That was not the agreement," she states through clenched teeth. He agrees because he does know that wasn't the agreement. "You owed me nothing."

_Nothing? __Is that truly what she thinks, that his actions toward her were some sort of obligation?_

"Technically, no, but – " he begins, slightly afraid his lips will profess his love for her before he can restrain them or before he can rightly assess the situation. A small seed of frustration starts to grow, and he fears it will obscure his judgement.

"No strings," she cuts him off. "When we're together, we're together. When we're not, we're not." She rattles off their terms, seemingly unconcerned with any other possibilities for the two of them to coexist in the world. She fixes a stare and he knows better than to proceed.

He changes course. Perhaps there will be a better time to continue this discussion before the night comes to a close.

"So, how are you?"

She relaxes a little and begins to talk. As he suspected, the rift with Lorelai still hovers prominently over her mood. She asks about the time and he jokes it off, asking if she's bored. But she's never bored – at least, not with him. _They're good like that_. He reaches into his jacket and retrieves the key from his inside pocket.

It's Plan B, the key. If she has a means of writing what she wants without the financial limitations of paying for rent and food, if she can produce something great that aids in confirming the validity of her life choices; if she can somehow find a way to be a little less adrift – then perhaps she might be able to better grasp what else she may want from life.

He reads the intrigue, the interest in her face. It's a grand gesture, but she sees that it's a heartfelt one. Her pride and incredulity don't keep her from reaching out her hand and accepting the key. She looks down, unanswered questions thick in the air.

"Are you really going to marry Odette?"

Maybe – just maybe – this is the moment. Does she not understand how he loves her? Has she not picked up on how indefinitely he has answered every question about Odette this evening? Is it possible she simply doesn't care how he feels?

"That's the dynastic plan," he says calmly, soberly.

_But is it your plan? _he wants her to ask – and, yet, she does not respond.

That is where the conversation ends and the drinking escalates.

* * *

To say they're drunk when they enter The King's Head Inn might be a slight overstatement of reality, but a sufficient quantity of alcohol remains in their blood – sufficient to lower their inhibitions, to relax their tensions, and to encourage their bodies to a collision course.

It starts with small touches – her hand on his hip, his hand rubbing firmly up and down her arm. They settle the matter of where they are and the truth of the deserted inn while the others wander about looking at pictures and scavenging for booze.

He offers up a key to the room across from his, and then her lips are on him. His whole body rouses at the taste of her.

"Show me," she says as he leads her upstairs.

_Let there be no doubt._

* * *

He awakens slowly, aware of the daylight, the stark quiet, and the mottled feeling of having consumed more than prudence would advise. He watches her as she sits wrapped in a robe, gazing out the open window at the new day and the brilliant leaves. Propping himself against the backboard, he invites her back to bed, and he tries to piece together what he can of what transpired in that bed mere hours before.

She appears contemplative, and he fears she regrets the night. She gives voice to the practical questions about when he has to return to London and shows no emotion in the asking. But then, for a split second, he spies spitfire wrapped into the pragmatic facade. He works his way out of the bed, talking about a diner – granting one last chance to discuss the future with the hope that she might speak, that she might ask him to change course.

"It was a perfect night," she says, returning her gaze outside. He recognizes the tone, the notes of finality, of resignation. She has accepted that her time with him has come to an end.

She gives back the key, in spite of his protests, in spite of the pained expression he can feel etching its way into his features. For a moment, his fears ease as she affirms she still has a plan to write. Clearly resolute and at peace, hope reemerges for the smallest of moments before once more being completely and unceremoniously dashed.

"Come on. We have to get you home."

And in that moment he knows. _He knows he must let her go._

* * *

They walk down the stairs to an offer of a martini, seemingly to help taper the drunkenness rather than to be blindsided by its immediate surge into hangover.

His insides fight for control, his emotions at war in the knowledge of what he must do. Anger rises to the surface one moment, then grief, then shock. Perhaps a drink will assist him in governing the wide-spectrum assault, in keeping it off of his face.

Looking out the window, he reins himself in momentarily before re-entering the conversation.

"I did not know about the Colt," he adds. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of Colin's inability to keep track of how he spends his money, but he feels the sigh of his heart instead. Not even humor at Colin's expense can revive the smallest bit of joy in this moment.

He takes a swig of the proffered martini and its imagined psychosomatic influence is quick in calming him. Barricades fall into place around his wounds, locking away the bleeding parts for after she has gone – and he picks up on the signs, on her body language. She intends to leave, and leave soon.

But how soon, he doesn't realize. There will be no breakfast. Any courage he might possess catches in his throat at her declaration of intent, making him suddenly sick. The recognition that this is the end, that it has come so quickly on the heels of his decision, rushes through and numbs his whole being with its pain. She rattles on in a friendly manner with the others and he manages to pull himself together one more time, his focus fixed on deepening his breaths. _It will be over soon_, he reminds himself. _Too soon._

"No, no, no. We had a whole morning planned," Finn protests. "No one's naked yet! You can't just rush off like this. Logan, tell her!" Colin and Robert look to him, despondent over the imminent loss of their queen.

He knows what Finn wants him to give voice to: To tell her Odette will marry Nico in a week or two, that the engagement was simply a means to buy time for both of them with their mothers, that he loves her – but he knows it will not make a difference. She has determined to go her own way and nothing he can tell her will stop the forward motion of her strength of will.

"I don't think she's listening to me anymore, boys," he manages, and in that moment he senses the slightest deposit of peace. He did this poorly the first time, abandoning her angrily at his refused proposal and not recognizing her need to establish herself – not just without him, but simply on her own. He will not stand in her way this time. He will step aside.

His friends candidly lament her going, reluctantly accepting her goodbyes with tears. None of them speaks for him, and for that he is grateful. They take their leave in the posture of meeting him at the diner. He can't help but ask one last time, "You sure you don't want breakfast?"

She smiles a relaxed, genuine smile for the first time since she saw him in Stars Hollow. His lips turn upward at the sight of it, he being the moon to her sun.

He rambles about wanting to drive her back, how he dragged her to the clearly forsaken wilds of New Hampshire – but she rebuffs his offers, seemingly grateful for the wild ride of the night. _Mr. Toad would be proud_, he acknowledges.

"It didn't work though, did it?" he asks, wondering if she has even registered that the whole evening was intentionally designed with an aim to accomplish something.

"Every ride has to end." Her answer only confirms what he already knows.

"Okay," he resigns. He touches her, keeping her at arm's length for fear of what he might do if he brings her close. "So, let's do this."

_It is time._

She leans in to accept one last kiss and his brain scrambles to tuck away every detail of the moment, the feel of her, the beautiful pause in time caused by her closeness, the final imprint of her lips upon his own.

He offers the house again with no expectation she will take it.

"I think your days of rescuing me are over." Their eyes lock.

"You never really needed rescuing, Ace. You know that."

"I do now," she responds.

A swelling sense of pride overtakes the numbness of his pain as he hears her speak the words with such confidence and ease. All he has ever wanted for her was that she might know how capable she is – that she has no need of him or anyone else to help her along.

He drops the costume hat back on her head, brushing aside a small piece of hair. This is how he wants to remember her: As beautiful as she ever was, but fully realized in and of herself.

_This is Rory Gilmore on her best day._

He steps back and frames her face with outstretched fingers like a director, locking down into memory the fall of the light onto her face and the impressive quiet in her eyes.

"Yeah – just like that," he remarks. He lowers his hands slowly, soberly, smiles and walks to the door. He doesn't look back, the ache and tension of withheld emotion breaking with each footfall toward the diner.

_Let her go._

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who followed along and arrived here at the end! It may not have turned out as you had hoped and, for that, I hope you'll grieve with me. The revival did not turn out as I had hoped, either – but I must admit I found its endpoint realistic nonetheless. It simply lacked some details that sidelined for the sake of the story's GIlmore-centric focus. And, there, the idea for this fic was born and demanded to be written. After more than two years of writing, I'm so grateful I've been able to share it with you.


End file.
